


His Archer's Needs

by Agent C (arh581958)



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Anal Sex, Domestic, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, M/M, Porn, Rimming, ServiceTop!Coulson, Smut, anal penetration, seriously its porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-26
Updated: 2018-04-27
Packaged: 2018-05-16 09:53:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5824168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arh581958/pseuds/Agent%20C
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a tough mission, Phil Coulson knows exactly what his archer needs--a hot bath, hot food, and hot loving. </p><p>(Or: the one where Clint tries to sit on Coulson's cock while they watch a movie.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Un-beta read**. Sorry, NQ, I just _had_ to post something today or else I will go crazy. I love you. *sends kisses and hides*. 
> 
> Please turn back if you're looking for a plot. It's just porn. Plain, simple, easy, porn.

It was past midnight by the time his archer comes home. Clint noisily went through the motions of stripping his bow, cleaning his equipment, and stowing away his gear. On a mission, he would have been silence as a mouse, lighter on his feet than a cat burglar. But, in the comfort of their home, his noise told Phil that it was him walking about their apartment and not some skrull, or LMD, or holo-tech imposter.

Phil looked down, checking the analog clock at the bottom left corner, while the light of the computer screen glared back at him. He had been. Much like other nights when the archer was working, he would sit on his side of the bed, computer on his lap, finishing reports while he waited. He folded it close and side-carried it to the living room. 

Clint was sitting, sprawled, on the couch with his muddy boots on the coffee table and his head thrown back. The grime was evident even in the low light. It was on his battered clothes and on his face, making his dirty blonde hair look even dirtier. A cold bowl of cereal lay forgotten on his stomach. 

Phil took away the bowl. “Bad day?” 

After a beat, Clint finally lifted his head with a deep-gutted moan. “Bad doesn’t even cover it, sir.” His voice was scratchy and raw, making Phil’s insides turn. He turned to nuzzle into Phil’s space. 

“Sitrep, agent.” He said in his best SA Coulson voice and yet he touched the archer in an overly familiar and intimate way. He smoothed his hands over Clint’s scalp, feeling the grime, the bumps, and the damp patches of blood. He frowned. 

Clint retold the story he told Hill in HQ. He told Phil of the shitty intel, the third and fourth unexpected parties, the bombs that weren’t defused, and the  _ hostages _ —the orphan child hostages who were locked in crates like nothing more than common cattle. By then, Phil was seated on the couch, arms wrapped around his lover, and squeezing back as best he could.

“Cereal is not appropriate post-mission dinner,” Phil said when Clint was finished. “Are you hungry?” A nod. “Do you  _ want _ to eat?” Another nod. “What do you want to eat?” 

“Jesus, Phil,” Clint huffed into Phil’s next. “I just came from a thirty-six hour fubar mission. Can you not ask me things and just, I don’t know… take care of me like you always do? You always know what’s best for me anyway. I just…”

“A bath then,” Phil decided, petting down Clint’s messy hair, “then dinner. I’ll make something while you soak in the water. Is there anything else you need, baby?” 

“Don’t you have work tomorrow?” Clint asked, his voice whiny and hopeful. There was no way that Phil would ever resist the archer when he sounded like that. “Really, Phil, I don’t want to keep you up. I’m good with the cereal and the bath already sounds fantastic.” 

“Nonsense,” Phil argued back, “I’ll figure something out tomorrow but, for now, what you need and what you want is the most important thing to me.” 

“Okay,” Clint nodded in agreement. A small smile lazily played on his face. 

Phil prepared a hot bath, with oil, bath salts, and bubbles. Then he added sage, parsley, and rosemary inside a commercial tea filter. He padded back in the living room to get his exhausted archer off the couch and into the bath. 

“Up, up,” Phil said, tapping on Clint’s leg. “Soak now while I reheat something hot for dinner.” 

Clint begrudgingly followed, not really wanting to stand up yet. He acquiesced and went up the stairs with Phil trailing behind him. In the bathroom, he was stripped quickly and efficiently by Phil’s practiced fingers, starting from his mud-caked shoes to his ripped shirt. He tiptoed into the bath, letting out a grunt-moan as the hot water first touched his flesh.

“Come down when you’re ready,” Phil told him, arms full of Clint’s soiled clothes, “Just don’t drip all over the carpet again, okay?” Clint made a noise which Phil took as agreement. Then, the older man went down the stairs to prepare something to eat. 

Phil made a couple of sandwiches, reheated a can of soup, and cut up some fresh fruit. He knew that Clint probably had to skip a meal during the mission. He planned to coax the archer’s stomach back into condition with warm soup then gradually work him up to the sandwiches. The fruit was always a good dessert. 

Clint came down as Phil was cutting the sandwiches into bite-sized pieces. He was dressed in Phil’s beat-up old Ranger’s hooded jacket, a pair of bright purple socks, and nothing else. It should look ridiculous on a grown man, especially one with Clint’s bulky frame, but it was adorable and extremely hot to Phil, who raised his eyebrow. 

“Movie while I eat?” Clint said with a shrug, saying nothing about his nakedness and obvious hard-on. Phil just smiled, took the plates of food, and followed Clint into the living room. Clint was standing beside the sofa, waiting for him. 

“Soup first,” Phil ordered, lowering the items on the coffee table. “Then you can ride my cock. I don’t want you collapsing over fatigue, malnutrition, or exertion while we’re watching the movie.” 

Clint, without prodding, gulped down the bowl in less than a minute. He slammed the bowl on the table when he was finished. His eyes were glazed and the tip of his tongue darted out between his lips while he looked at Phil. “Phil, can we…” he whined, “can I just…” 

“Use your words, Clint.” Phil said, teasing. He was already sitting down, pulling down his pajama bottoms, and fisting his half-hard cock in preparation. Clint eyed his moving hand shamelessly. 

“I want to ride your cock, Phil,” Clint said, licking his lips. 

Phil smiled and took his hand. “Come here, baby,” he cooed, pulling gently, “my cock is lonely without you. It wants to be buried inside you too.” 

Clint groaned and climbed onto Phil’s lap, facing away. He let the older man align the hard flesh with his entrance before he sunk down with a loud open-mouth groan. The breach, the stretch, the feeling was breathtaking. He prepped up to four fingers in the bath but it was nothing compared to Phil’s long thick cock steadily sliding inside of him. Phil’s hands were gripping his hips. 

“Christ, Clint, you’re so fucking  _ tight, _ ” Phil muttered under his breath, brow shining and knuckles white with the effort to keep steady. He wanted to thrust up and pound into Clint’s sweet velvety heat but he needed to stop himself. Clint needed to be in control and for Clint, he will do absolutely anything. 

“Don’t move,” Clint warned, halfway impaled on Phil’s cock, “just, don’t—t…” he groaned, pushing the last inch down until the whole of Phil’s nine and a half inches was sheathed inside on him. He was sitting on Phil’s lap, ass touching Phil’s balls, then he breathed out because finally, finally—he was home. “I love your cock inside me, Phil, I love it.” 

Phil wrapped his arms around Clint’s torso, sneaking underneath the shirt, and held on. “I missed you too, Clint.” He said against the back of Clint’s neck, kissing at where damp blond locks end. “What movie do you want to watch?” 

“Something light,” Clint mused, cocking his head in an adorably childish fashion and not at all like he had Phil’s balls deep inside his ass, “Got any really bad spy movies on Netflix? So we can laugh at everything they got wrong?” 

It’s hard to chuckle when Clint’s wrapped around him like a vice. Phil reached for the remote and searched for  _ Kingsman: Secret Service _ . He pressed play in triumph. He groaned as Clint leaned forward, hoodie rising up to show the ripple of his back and ass, the squeezing flex of Clint’s inner muscles around him, while Clint grabbed the plate of sandwiches on the coffee table. He stifled another groan when Clint sank down with his full weight, humming lazily over the food, as the movie started.

Clint ate slowly, eyes glued to the screen while he rocked his hips in small rocking motions. He enjoyed the way that Phil’s tip played with his prostrate at every stroke. It wasn’t enough to make him cum but it was enough to remind him that Phil was  _ there _ seated inside him and that they were connected. He held on to that thought while eating his sandwiches and laughing at a really badly dressed Nick Fury lookalike. 

Phil was steady but not stiff. He watched the movie with his neck craned over Clint’s shoulder. He paid careful attention to keep his hips still, fighting the urge to jerk up and meet Clint’s rocking with thrusts of his own. He distracted his inner beast by rubbing his palm up and down Clint’s thighs, supportive and undemanding. 

When Clint’s writhing got too much, even for the impenetrable Agent Coulson, Phil moved his hands to Clint’s own cock which was wet and leaking. He could see the clear liquid glistening in the reflection on the TV cabinet. He pulled back foreskin and spread the slick with his thumb, running over the head, while Clint shivered deliciously above him. 

They watched a good portion of the movie just like that: Clint, rocking hips in small circles while periodically pulsing over Phil, and Phil, leisurely jerking away at Clint’s cock. 

By the time the candidates were woken up by their first challenge, the sandwiches were long gone and Clint’s hips were increasingly becoming erratic. His breath was labored. His hands were gripping the back of Coulson’s thighs, trapped against the couch cushion, for purchase while he fucked himself on his lover’s cock. 

“Ph—phi—phil,” He rasped out, unable to form anything coherent as he chased after his own orgasm, “P—p—pl—please, Ph—Phil,”

Phil growled in Clint’s ear, nipping it with his teeth then leaving a trail of messy angry love bites on the archer’s neck. He gripped Clint’s cock more firmly, letting the archer control the rocking between his back and his front, casing the pleasure from both sides. Phil loved this, loved doing this, love letting Clint  _ take _ his own pleasure, owning it, like he was merely a vessel. 

The moment Clint began to tense-up, he whispered, “Come now, Clint,” into Clint’s ear, and the archer shook the intensity of his orgasm, collapsing back on Phil’s chest like a rag doll. Practiced, Phil caught every single drop of cum in his cupped palms and brought it up to his lips to savor the taste. 

Clint rolled his head on Phil’s shoulder with a happy hum rumbling at that back of his throat. His eyes cracked open, watching in a daze as Phil lapped up his cum. “That’s freaking hot,” he mumbled, amused, “I’ll never get tired of seeing that.”  

The movie was only half-over. 

Sometime between Galahad accidently making Professor Arnold’s head explode and Eggy’s  _ strapped to the railway  _ scene, Clint lost the hoodie and started bouncing up and down Phil’s cock. Phil, in response to all the naked Clint Barton glory, wound his hands around the younger man’s torso and started to play with Clint’s nipples. By now, those nipples were red and rubbed raw. 

Phil panted into Clint’s slightly damp neck. The tan skin was flushed and littered with rosy red love bites, from the column of the neck to the dip of the shoulder blades. He leaned back, tracing make believe constellations made from his kiss marks. 

“More, baby?” He asked, puffy hot breaths against the back of Clint’s ear, fingers pinching to draw attention.

“More,” Clint answered, head bowed forward, his dirty blond hair fell over his face, his glorious muscled arms flexed with the strain of keeping his body upright, and his hands held his knees in a white-knuckled grip that will become bruises in the morning. He was so sensitive on all fronts now—nipples, cock, and ass—and all of it because of Phil. 

Phil fought with himself, steel determination winning over feral instincts to grab Clint by the hips, flip them over, and fuck with abandon. No, he would wait for Clint to say it, to want it, to beg for it. He concentrated on touching Clint everywhere arms, collar, chest, ribs, abs, stomach, and thighs. When he dared to go lower, he dipped his fingers under Clint’s knees and  _ pulled _ . 

Clint surged up one, bouncing in a frog leap, planting both feet on the couch. 

“God, Phil,” He threw his head back and moaned, “Phil, Phil, sweet jesus, fuck, Phil,” 

His arms went flying back, desperate for something to hold. He found purchase on Phil’s shoulders, the cotton cool under his heated palms while he felt Phil’s arms flex under the fabric. The new angle hit him deeper than before, he could no longer control his weight, his ass slapped against Phil’s thighs with every down stroke. He felt so exposed and he loved it, the thrill of being in control yet vulnerable. 

Phil grunted with the force of Clint’s hips. 

“Just—just—t.” Clint moaned brokenly. He let go of his hold and grabbed Phil’s hands, spitting on them, and wrapping them around his cock again. It was hard again and painful, extra-sensitive from the earlier orgasm. “Make it tight,” he begged, “let me fuck it.” 

So Phil did. 

The first one of the night had been like a firework, explosive, sudden, and quick but Clint’s second orgasm was like a small wave, pulling him further and further from the shore, drawing him out, then gently taking him under. It was slow and sensual, cum dribbling down his cock in a continuous flow, dripping past his balls and warm on his sensitive hole. 

Clint toppled back, heavy on Phil’s chest, skin glistening with sweat. 

The movie was long forgotten in the background.

Every inch of his body tingled with zings of pleasure. And,  _ he could still feel Phil _ , solid and hot inside him. If only he had more strength, he would turn around and kiss the man stupid while he rode him to completion. But, as he was, his legs were jelly and he feels like he couldn’t move even if there was another Hydra attack. 

So Clint took the easy route. He leaned far enough to kiss the side of Coulson’s mouth and whisper, “Fuck me, sir, I need it,” 

Agent Phillip J. Coulson was highly efficient in the field. He brought the same intensity to the bedroom. All Clint had to do was hold on. 

Phil skillfully maneuvered them both, never once slipping out, until Clint was lying down on his back on the couch cushions, one leg over the backrest, the other pinned to his chest by Phil’s arm, and half his body arched on Phil’s lap. Clint was a little woozy and a whole lot turned on by the feat. His limp cock twitching in attention but not hardening. 

“Right there,” he gasped on Phil’s first stroke. He clung to the man’s forearms which were strong with lean compact muscle. “Right there, Phil, yes,” he panted, surging up, trying and fail to get Phil deeper, so he begged, “Deeper, Phil, deeper, fuck me, like that, yeah, right there,” 

In the end, Clint fell back and let Phil work on his commands. 

“Less, less,“ he said when his ass got too sensitive and Phil would pull out until just the tip of his cock was inside. Thrusts were shallow and small, just an inch or two at most going in and out of his whole. Then, he would plead, “a little deeper, just a bit,” and Phil would slide half his cock inside in slow, smooth, slides. 

“Stop,” it came out as barely a whispered but Phil stilled as if the word stung, concern filling his features. He bit his lips to hard that it bled, his knees, his hips, and his cock was trembling with the effort not to move. 

“Clint?” 

“Phil,” Clint replied with a grin. He ran a finger over Phil’s cheek and his breath hitched when the older man leaned into his open palm, kissing the center. Slowly, and purposely prolonging the sweet torture for both of them, he took Phil’s hands and did the same before flipping it over and kissing the knuckles. 

Of all the things that they were doing, it was kissing Phil’s hands that made the older man blush. 

Clint felt smug about that.

He did it again. Over and over, again and again, making Phil speed up then slow down, go deep then go shallow, start then stop, until looked like he was about to break. All the while, he held onto Phil’s hands like they were the most precious thing on earth. Not once did Phil ask for anything. So, Clint made him stop again. 

“Look at me,” he demanded in a surprisingly firm voice, and Phil did. He made sure that their eyes were connected before he spoke again. He planted Phil’s large hands on the globes of his ass and said, “Make me feel it tomorrow, Phil.” 

Above him, Phil was beginning to sweat with exertion. He could see the darkening patches of blue where the man’s sweat was starting to pool. Clint opened his legs wider, using his arms and folding his whole body in half. Phil hit Clint’s prostate dead on after a miscalculated thrust and Clint  _ screamed _ . He wound his legs around Phil’s lower back and fucked himself on Phil’s cock. They rocked together. 

Phil’s hands were  _ gripping, clawing, bruising _ his ass and he loved it. He can feel every indentation of Phil’s ten fingers staking their claim. “Harder,” he commanded, reaching for Phil’s shoulders until he was nearly seated on Phil’s lap again, “Harder, come on, Phil, give it to me harder, you can fuck me, I won’t break, just ha—ha—oh fuck sweet jesus  _ yesssss _ !”

Phil came and Clint followed, creating a mess on his stomach. Phil clung to him like he was a lifeline, pulsing and coming and filling him up with warm seed, hitting him directly over his prostate and making him ejaculate dry. The amount of Phil’s cum was so much that it leaked out from where they were connected with a squishy wet sound. Then, Phil collapsed on top of him, a comforting weight over Clint’s body. 

It was a good ten minutes before either of them moved again. When Phil pulled out, his cum followed his cock on the way out while Clint’s puffy, red, gaping hole was powerless to keep it from escaping. He made a humming sound while admiring his work, running a finger over the rim and licking his finger. Clint twitched in sensitivity. 

“You made a mess, sir,” he quipped, teasing with his gravelly voice. “Good agents clean up their messes.” 

Phil chuckled. “Perhaps I will, agent,” he said back, equally teasing. He pried Clint’s cheeks apart with his thumbs, leaning in and marveling at the open well-fucked ass hole. It was almost too good to debauch but he needed to clean Clint up before they went to bed. 

The first touch was intense: Phil’s mouth was in a perfect o-shape with perfect suction, making Clint’s inside melt and feel gooey. He didn’t stop there. He let his tongue dive inside, lapping and licking, French-kissing Clint in the most intimate way possible in the most intimate place on a man. He kept licking and sucking all the bitter-saltiness of himself until he tasted Clint’s musky flavor on his mouth. 

By the time he stopped, Clint’s eyes are closed and his breathing slightly shallow, just on the edge of sleep. 

“Phil,” the archer mumbled sleepily. 

Phil got off. He straightened out Clint’s legs, one by one, massaging the tight muscles of Clint’s thighs, his shin, and calves. He climbed on top of Clint and licked the drying clumps of cum off Clint’s stomach and chest. Then, once they were slightly clean, he prodded the blond awake with a nip to the collar bone. 

“Come on, sleepy head,” he murmured affectionately. “It’s time to go to bed.”

Phil cared not for the rising run outside the window, the mess they left in the living room, the untouched bowl of fruit, or the fresh cum stains on their furniture. Later, much later, he’ll deal with the rest of that shit. What he cared about right now was his archer being home safe, relaxed, sated, and sleeping in their bed, in his arms. 


	2. Chapter 2

Thick-ass thighs—Phil’s always been fascinated about them. That, and thick-ass- _fuck_ arms with corded muscles. He’s always loved them. Loved the way those muscles moved above him or trembled beneath his palms. Most especially, so, he loved the man they were connected to. Maybe, perhaps more than maybe, he’s always just loved his archer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit. Sorry for the little excerpt. I just had to write a little from Phil's side.

**Author's Note:**

> So, anyway, I was just finish over another fandom's otp-week. I'm kind of in a writing-coma. It's that weird feeling you get when you wrote such much in a span of seven days and feel so inspiration-drained. You have to work through it, you know, and write more so the juices don't stop flowing. Well, that's the end of my rant, I hope you enjoy some C/C smut 'cause I miss 'em so freaking much.
> 
> If you're tired of my porn, or want more of it, click the 'inspire me' link below;  
> All things holy guys, give me some ideas here.  
> (And C/C comics I can read, seriously.)
> 
> If you have a prompt or an idea, you can [INSPIRE ME](http://arh581958.tumblr.com/submit) on tumblr.


End file.
